


You Can't Go Home Again aka Dear Sigmund, Again

by yuletide_archivist



Category: MASH (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:09:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1643240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sydney Freedman comes to the 4077th in search of a little renewal during the Winter holidays and what he finds is beyond his wildest hopes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Go Home Again aka Dear Sigmund, Again

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my husband, OneGoldenRaptor, for beta-ing and Muse-poking far above the call of duty. :-) This story wouldn't be nearly as good as it is without his help.   
>  All persons, places, events, etc. are either fictional or are used fictitiously.   
> The characters belong to their creators; the story to me.
> 
> Written for bamboo

 

 

 

 

December 13, 1952

_Dear Sigmund:_

_It's been awhile since I've written._

 

He looked up from his diary just in time to dodge the large pine tree as it sailed past his head. It was being carried by a couple of enlisted men on their way to its final resting place at one end of the large tent that comprised the mess hall of the 4077th M.A.S.H unit. He'd always been faintly bemused as to how a decorated tree could have anything to do with the Christian's Savior, but put it down to a _`you had to be there'_ sort of thing. M. Sydney Freedman, MD, was nothing if not pragmatic.

He turned back to his letter.

 

_It's Saturday night, and the second night of Chanukah. Somehow I feel I should feel more like celebrating, but I don't. After an October that contained some of the heaviest fighting in over a year, and with the peace talks in indefinite recess, there simply seems to be nothing to celebrate._

_So I've come to spend the holidays at the 4077th. My faith has been running a little low of late, but these folks are always great for lifting the spirits. In the midst of adversity and trial, they somehow manage to rise above their circumstances and remain a shining example of the best that humanity can be. Hopefully here I can rekindle some hope of my own, a candle to burn brightly against the darkness, like the candles on the menorah back home._

 

"Dr. Freedman?"

He looked up to see Nurse Kellye looking at him with a worried expression on her face.

"Yes?" he asked, tucking his diary away in his jacket pocket.

"You're needed in post-op."

He nodded and rose from the bench. Off to his left, where the tree had finally been straightened, the sounds of laughter followed him out of the tent. He shook his head. Death never took a holiday here, and sometimes he felt that he didn't either.

There was always something more to be done, someone else to be helped. He didn't mind. It was his calling after all. But sometimes, he could wish for a little less suffering in this world, and to be just a little less needed.

As Kellye led him through the double doors that led into the post-op ward, Sydney reflected that it never got any easier. The rows of mangled bodies stayed the same, only the faces and the wounds changed.

"Lt. Williams?" Kellye asked softly.

The face that turned towards them at the hail chilled Sydney to the bone. The empty look of despair beyond hopelessness... he saw that in faces that usually were attached to corpses very soon after. He hid his reaction behind a mask of professionalism, and approached the bed. The lifeless eyes tracked him warily as he pulled over a chair and sat down.

"Hi. I'm Major Freedman. I'm a psychiatrist."

It never got any easier.

  
  
December 15, 1952  
  
 _Dear Sigmund:  
  
You could ask - why you? Out of all the people I've met, in life or through my studies, why is it you that I've chosen to be the recipient of my letters? There's the obvious reason: you are the Father of Modern Psychiatry. But then, beyond that, there are other reasons, both more complex and less so.  
  
In your own way, I think you, above many others, would understand what we're going through out here. You were in a war too - the war against the criminalization of insanity. And even though time has proven some of your methods wrong, still you were out there. Pioneering, daring, taking the chances and the risks so that the rest of us would have something to work with.   
  
War is everything it's cracked up to be, Sigmund. Hell is far too mild a word to adequately describe it. The things that one person can do to another defy all description._  
  
  
He put down his pen for a moment, remembering, before picking it up and continuing.   
  
  
_It takes a toll, Sigmund, make no mistake about that. No matter who you are when you come here, you are certain to leave here as someone completely different.  
  
For some, that can be a good thing. I've seen kids that were surely headed to prison and worse if it hadn't been for the Army find purpose and meaning here. But for far too many others, Sigmund, this place has simply sucked the life right out of them. _  
  
  
He shook his head. He'd lost far too many kids to the long, cold nights, to the pain and blood and fear. Some killed themselves outright. Many more still lived, if you could call it that, when the light that made life worth living was so clearly gone from their eyes.   
  
Like Lt. Williams.   
  
He and a group of his fellow Corps of Engineers had been working on a road a few miles north of here when the North Koreans and the Chinese had deemed it a prime target and blown it off the map. Most of his fellow engineers had died right there, and most of the rest were in critical condition.   
  
Little wonder that he'd been called in to assess the man's mental state. The only question was... would he be able to change anything about it?   
  
He rose from his chair and stretched. Coffee would be good. The sludge that was served here under the name of coffee would have to do.   
  
It was one of the many things he missed about home. Fresh coffee. Going down to the deli for lox and bagels and fresh, hot coffee every morning. Enjoying them over the Times before heading into the office for another day's work.   
  
He sighed and walked out of the Swamp. His coffee, or what passed for it around here, wasn't going to fetch itself. 

  
  
December 19th, 1952  
  
 _Dear Sigmund:  
  
Eight days and nights the lamps burned in the temple, Sigmund, when there was oil enough for only one. A miracle, certainly. I look around me and see how the people around here manage to stretch their meager supplies to the breaking point and beyond, and I think that surely here is another one.   
  
Both the people of the 4077th and the villagers around them take what little they have and use it to perform feats of ingenuity that I wouldn't even have believed possible if I hadn't seen them for myself. Whether it's stretching food that's barely enough for one person to feed a whole family in the village, or stretching the all-too-often limited medical supplies to fit the enormous and never-ending need in camp, the people around here are masters at making do. _  
  
  
Sydney smiled at the tree decorated with popcorn strands and thermometers and went to refill his coffee. Somehow, in an odd way, it almost felt like home. 

  
  
December 21, 1952  
  
 _Dear Sigmund:  
  
I think Hawkeye and BJ have figured out the real reason I'm here, the one beyond HQ's desire to know how front-line personnel are handling the holidays. There's something in the way they look at me that tells me they remember last spring and that they know exactly why I'm here now. But they haven't said anything yet, and for that, I'm strangely grateful.   
  
Is it that I'm too proud to admit the need for some solace of my own? Or is it simply that I don't want to risk letting these people down? There are so many here who depend on me to help them find the answers they need to survive this place.   
  
I don't know the answer, Sigmund. All I know is that I'm relieved that the camp is buying my story without question. And that the ones who know the true story aren't talking._  
  
  
He saw the worried eyes following him from time to time, the looks of silent concern on their faces. He tried to reassure Hawkeye and BJ wordlessly that he was fine, that things would be all right. He must have succeeded, because the looks went away, replaced by their customary easy friendship, for which he was even more grateful.   
  
It wasn't easy, to look after the ones who looked after others. It would have been nearly impossible if he were not able to maintain the friendly yet faintly distanced demeanor that served him so well. Pity had no place here, for him or anyone else. It would only interfere with him doing his job.   
  
And he was needed here. The normally upbeat, almost zany, optimism that usually pervaded the camp was sorely lacking these days. The stalling of the peace talks had hit everyone hard, and the joyousness and celebration that was supposed to go with the season only served to remind everyone just how far away they were from where they wanted to be.   
  
Every day he was being called upon to mitigate the thousand and one little signs that the people of the 4077th had been here too long and really wanted - and needed - to go home. So far, he'd been successful in talking them into waiting just that little bit longer. But how much longer would they wait?   
  
He could only pray that he could keep convincing them. But he was starting to wonder, especially when his own home called to him more and more each day with a siren's song of longing. 

  
  
December, 25th , 1952  
  
 _Dear Sigmund:  
  
It was horrific. Christmas Day, and instead of Santa Claus coming to the children of Saint Teresa's orphanage, it was bombs. Like the Christ, these orphans had no place to go. But unlike the Christ, the wonderful, caring souls of the 4077th made sure there was room for everyone in the inn. _  
  
  
"Dr. Freedman!" Father Mulcahy stood in front of him, vibrating with urgency. "Come quickly. We need you." Sighing, he tucked his diary in his coat as he stood up. Deal with the situation first, write about it later.   
  
Amidst the chaos that was the aftermath of battle, children were still being comforted, and settled wherever a suitable space could be found, by whatever hands were available to do so. Sydney noted sadly as he walked that the numbers sheltered at St Teresa's had only increased over the years. Everyone who could possibly be spared from their duties had come out to do what they could to welcome the newcomers and make them feel as safe and secure as possible under the circumstances.   
  
Sydney followed Father Mulcahy as he threaded his way quickly across the crowded compound and into the post-op ward. A sudden fear gripped his heart as he thought about what he might find.   
  
Those fears were realized when he saw the bloody bandages and the restraints on Williams' arms and the tears leaking from his eyes. _Damn._ He'd been afraid something like this might happen. He'd just hoped and prayed that it wouldn't. He'd been wrong.   
  
Forcing himself into a calm he did not feel, he walked over to the bed. "Lieutenant?" he questioned softly.   
  
"Why? Why won't you just let me die?" The young man wasn't speaking to anyone in particular, but Sydney took the opportunity to answer anyway.   
  
"Why would you want to die, Lieutenant? Surely you have something to live for. Family, friends?" he probed gently, hoping to find some anchor for the young man to cling to.   
  
"They're all back home. And I'm trapped here. Never going to get out. Never going to go home! Everybody died. That's the only way we're getting home. None of us are ever going home until we're _dead_!" He fought against the restraints for a moment before giving up and falling back against the pillow. "Never going home," he whispered again, his blond hair wet with sweat and tears.   
  
The man's outburst shook him, but Sydney did his best not to show it, taking refuge in his professional demeanor. "Lieutenant. We're all going home someday," he managed to answer quietly, but wondered to himself - was it true?   
  


* * *

Later, when he'd done the best for Williams that he could, he carefully threaded his way through the maze of cots and improvised sleeping spaces, heading back for the Swamp. He jumped a little at hearing Father Mulcahy's voice come out of the darkness.

"Are you all right, Sydney?"

"Well, except for that scare you just gave me, Father," he replied, smiling to take the sting out of his words. "Why do you ask?"

"You've just seemed a little down, that's all." Father Mulcahy stepped into the light.

"Oh, perhaps a little tired of the stuffed shirts down at Headquarters. For all their rules and regulations, sometimes it doesn't seem as if they're getting very far."

Father Mulcahy smiled. "I know what you mean. I've felt that way too, from time to time."

"How do you deal with it, Father?"

"I just remember that the Lord does things in His Own time, whether we're willing to accept that or not."

Sydney laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose."

"I've noticed that you've been here quite a while this time, Sydney. Is there something else?" The man's gentle perception was almost uncanny.

"No, Father. I'll be all right. Thank you for your concern." And with that, he walked off before the man could question him further, leaving Mulcahy looking after him with concern in his eyes.

* * *

Sydney made it to the Swamp without further incident. Wearily, he poured himself a drink and sat down on his cot. Now that the crisis was over, he could allow himself to feel.

A few minutes later, Charles Emerson Winchester III came in, battered and still bloody after the long haul in surgery. Irritably, he pulled off his stained clothing and changed. Cleaner, if no less irritable, he turned to Sydney.

"Are all the little children finally tucked up in their beds?"

"I would imagine so. Why?" Sydney struggled for calm. While Charles had his redeeming features, he also possessed the ability to annoy those around him to no end with his highbrow attitudes and apparent lack of concern for anyone other than himself.

"No reason. Other than the fact that a MASH is no place for children."

"Major," Sydney replied, struggling for a patience he didn't feel. "These children have lost their home. Surely you don't have a problem with them staying here."

"We're a hospital, not a hotel," Winchester snapped. " _Surely_ , they should have somewhere else better suited to their needs."

Sydney had no answer to that, and a strong suspicion that it would be far better not to try to come up with one in his current state of mind. Instead, he merely shook his head and sought his cot. Perhaps sleep would bring new insights in the morning.

  
  
December 26, 1952  
  
The morning might not have brought new insights, but it had at least illuminated the old ones, Sydney mused over his morning coffee and something that was supposed to be oatmeal, but neither looked nor tasted quite right, leading him to have deep suspicions regarding its actual origins. It had also revealed how much work there was still to be done.   
  
After breakfast, Sydney went to check on his patient. Williams looked drawn and frail as he lay against the pillow, nearly as white as the sheets he rested on. Those lifeless eyes followed his every move, although the man said nothing.   
  
"Lieutenant Williams." The eyes flicked to his face for a moment, then away. Sydney looked at the man's chart for his full name. Benjamin Williams. That would do, for a start. "May I call you Ben?" A wary nod, but still no words.   
  
He sat down, deciding to wait the man out. Sometimes it was good to give the patient something he could control.   
  
Finally, just when Sydney thought his gambit had failed, the young man spoke. "What are all these children doing here?" He tried to gesture around the room, but failed when he came up against the restraints. He shied abruptly away from the movement, as if by not moving against their limits, he could pretend the restraints weren't there.   
  
"They're orphans, Lieutenant. Their home was destroyed in the shelling yesterday."   
  
"Ah." The answer must have satisfied him for he lay back against the pillow and lapsed into silence again.   
  
When he didn't resume speaking, Sydney waited for a while longer, then left. There would be time enough later for the questions that would have to be answered.   
  


* * *

_Dear Sigmund:_

_It always hits hardest when someone young is determined to die. They have so much to live for, but sometimes you simply cannot make them understand. Failure is never taken lightly, but when failure ends in death, it's even harder to accept._

_We get a lot of those kinds of failures around here, Sigmund, as hard as we try to avoid them. Whether it comes from an enemy shell or their own hand, there are a lot of people choosing death out there. As hard as it is for them, sometimes I think it's even harder on those they leave behind._

_Even the people of the 4077th seem to be affected. For all the jokes and laughter here, I can see the effects of the continued losses - in their eyes, the way the laughter is sometimes forced, feigned to cover tears that they cannot afford to shed._

_There's a lot of pain out there, Sigmund, and sometimes it seems like there's not enough hope in this world to even begin to fill the need._

 

"Where are those kids gonna go, Charles?" Hawkeye asked as the two of them entered the post-op ward. "In case you haven't noticed, it's cold out there. It's not like we can just throw them out to fend for themselves."

"I don't know, Pierce. All I know is that they can't stay here."

"Charles," BJ chimed in. "It's going to take weeks, months, before they could have a place that's fit to live in."

"No, it won't."

The three of them looked around, startled, trying to identify the location of the voice.

"No, it won't," Williams repeated.

This time, they found the source of the voice and looked at Williams in astonishment, both at his words and at the simple fact that he had spoken. From all reports, the man had said nothing since his outburst the night before, even when questioned.

Hawkeye found his voice first. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... that kind of thing... should only take a few days. At most."

"Really?" BJ asked, amazed.

"Yeah. I'm an engineer. We do that kind of thing all the time."

"You think you could get it done?"

Williams straightened against the pillows. "If I had the right kind of crew and the right materials, I sure could." He started to gesture, and came up against the restraints again.

Hawkeye could see the light that had come into his eyes at the mention of the project begin to fade again. Quickly, he came to a decision. He walked over to the bed. "Nurse. Could I have some help here, please?" he asked, taking off the restraints. "Don't let me down, Williams," he said, meeting the man's eyes.

Williams nodded, looking at him squarely. "I won't."

"Good." He straightened up. "Let me go talk to Major Freedman. If he agrees, I don't see why you couldn't help us help those kids."

"I'd like that," Williams said quietly.

* * *

"Sydney. Wait up!" Hawkeye called.

Sydney slowed and stopped at the call, turning to meet Hawkeye as he ran across the compound. "What is it, Hawkeye?"

"I think I may have just found the cure for your patient," he replied, as gleeful as a kid at Christmas.

"Oh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We let him build an orphanage."

At Sydney's look, he continued. "Okay, not the whole thing. But we let him plan it. You should have seen him, Sydney! For the first time since he's come in here, he looked alive."

At Hawkeye's enthusiasm, Sydney found there was nothing he could do but agree to the plan.

"Okay, great!" Hawkeye said, almost vibrating with joyful intensity. "I promise you, you won't regret it."

* * *

Hawkeye practically ran back to the post-op. He could barely contain himself as he came up to Williams' bed. "Okay, okay, we're in! So, what will you need?"

Williams thought about it for a moment. "Well, supplies, obviously. And a crew."

* * *

"Klinger!" Colonel Potter yelled from his office.

"You bellowed, your Colonelness?" Klinger inquired, coming into Colonel Potter's office.

"Yes, I did. Get me Colonel Lamont at Division Quartermaster."

"May I inquire as to the reason the Colonel requires such a personage?" he asked curiously.

"We're building an orphanage and we need supplies to do it." Klinger blinked in astonishment, not quite sure he'd heard properly. "Now, go!"

Whether or not he'd heard correctly, his was not to reason why, he figured. His was to get the Colonel on the phone. As soon as humanly possible.

He went.

* * *

A short time later, he handed the phone to Colonel Potter with a slightly shaky hand. Dealing with the brass always made him nervous. So much Army in one place.

Colonel Potter took the receiver with a quick nod of thanks, before speaking into it. "Jim! It's Sherm Potter. Yeah, I know, it's been too long. How's Jeannie and the girls? Oh, good. Yeah, Mildred's fine. Yeah, the grandkids too.

"Listen, Jim, I've got a situation here that I'm hoping you can help me with. The local orphanage got bombed the other night. Right now, we're hosting the kids, but they can't stay here forever. And I figure it'd look real good for Uncle Sam if he could be seen helping these kids out. You will? Great! My clerk will be sending you a list shortly. Thanks a lot, Jim. We'll have to get together real soon, relive some old times. Yeah, you, too. Take care." He handed the phone back to Klinger, a satisfied grin on his face.

"He said he'd be happy to help in any way he can."

* * *

When Hawkeye returned to the Swamp, Charles met him with a check in his hand.

"What's this for?" Hawkeye asked, confused and a bit suspicious.

"You'll need money to get this done. Here." The air of casualness fooled no one.

"Charles, how generous."

He looked away, embarrassed. "Well, anything to help get those kids out of here."

Hawkeye smiled, letting the man have his excuse. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Charles nodded.

* * *

Klinger went to Rosie, where she stood behind the counter.

"Hey, Rosie," he said, "We need a line on building supplies. We're rebuilding Saint Theresa's."

She nodded. "I can hook you up," she said confidently.

"How much?" Klinger asked, reaching for his wallet.

Rosie reached out a hand, put in on his arm. When he looked up at her, she shook her head and smiled. "It's on the house."

  
  
December 29, 1952  
  
 _Dear Sigmund:  
  
Williams really started something with his statement. The whole camp is really coming behind his idea, and the village too. Perhaps this is exactly what they needed.   
  
I know it's what Williams needed. When he speaks of the project, his eyes light up and he comes to life. I only hope that this will be enough to encourage him to keep on living after it's over. _  
  
  
Supplies were pouring in from all over, by deuce-and-a-half and oxcart, from Division QM and from Rosie's connections in the black market. Everyone around had heard of the 4077th's desire to help the orphans of Saint Theresa, and they all came to contribute whatever they could, whether it was supplies or labor or even just encouragement.   
  
And as simply as that, the miracle occurred. 

  
  
January 1st, 1953  
  
 _Dear Sigmund:  
  
The children were able to go home today to a place that was better than before. Williams really came through. He and his Corps of Engineers buddies got the orphanage rebuilt in record time. And what was even better, Sigmund, was to see his eyes shining with life and hope again.   
  
The people at the 4077th seem to have renewed their spirits as well. There's a gaiety around here that hasn't been there for a while.   
  
And myself? It's still a long road, Sigmund, and a lot of pain and suffering to relieve along it, but I think I can handle it now.   
  
It's funny, but sometimes in helping others, we help ourselves the most.   
  
So while it's true, Sigmund, that you can't go home again, sometimes, if you're lucky, home will come to you.   
  
-Sydney_

  
  


 


End file.
